


Stay

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Reunion, Vulnerable Brock Rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-28 13:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14450496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: The voice is off though familiar, but Jack doesn’t need to hear it, doesn’t need to look into the hazel eyes to know who it is. It’s an unbelievable coincidence, them meeting again like this, but suddenly Jack realizes it was inevitable; meant to be, not that he usually believes in this kind of bullshit.A moment of them just breathing and staring at each other passes and Brock reaches up to take off his helmet.“This is me now.”





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to comfort myself after Infinity War.

It’s been almost two years when they see each other again. They’re both on a job, trying to steal the same pellet of adamantium from a guy who already stole it from somewhere else. Jack doesn’t need to know the details, not that he cares, and asking questions isn’t in his nature even if he did. Extraction isn’t his favorite part of the job, but beggars can’t be choosers, and there’s a chance he’ll get to kill the guy if he proves to be trouble, so he doesn’t even complain this time.

It’s shameful Jack doesn’t recognize Brock at first, but to his defense, the last time he’s heard of him, he was comatose in a hospital. He wasn’t tracking the news; from what he knew, Brock’s chances of survival were low, and he’d rather live with the false conviction he was still alive than find out about his death.

Jack almost has the pellet in his hand when he shows up, clad in black from head to toe, with scratched white cross markings on his helmet and chest plate. Jack doesn’t yet know they’re after the same thing, but it’s apparent the newcomer’s trouble, so he opens fire without a second thought. The armor and the helmet keep him from getting harmed, and he’s up in Jack’s face in a matter of seconds, elbowing his pistol out of his hand. Jack throws a punch, but his opponent blocks it, twists Jack’s arm and kicks him in the stomach.

His gear makes him look taller and bigger than he actually is, and it’s his smooth and calculated moves that make something click in Jack’s head. He makes them look effortless despite the heavy armor, like he’s a feather dancing in the wind. He doesn’t leave himself unguarded when he takes a swing, and a thought that _he fights_ _exactly like_ _—_ surfaces before a heavy gauntlet collides with Jack’s jaw and he’s momentarily blinded. He realizes a second too late he’s sprawled out on the floor, and when he presses his palms flat on the cold stone to prop himself up, a steel-toe boot lands on his stomach.

“Stay down.”

The voice is off though familiar, but Jack doesn’t need to hear it, doesn’t need to look into the hazel eyes to know who it is. It’s an unbelievable coincidence, them meeting again like this, but suddenly Jack realizes it was inevitable; meant to be, not that he usually believes in this kind of bullshit.

A moment of them just breathing and staring at each other passes and Brock reaches up to take off his helmet.

“This is me now.”

Jack’s heart sinks and his own face aches when he looks at the burns that twist Brock’s features into something else. He doesn’t exactly flinch—his face never is that expressive, he usually keeps his reactions to himself. But Brock _knows_ him, knows how to read him, having been doing so for years. He withdraws, taking his foot off Jack’s stomach and raising his helmet to put it back on his head.

“I thought I lost you,” Jack blurts out in an attempt to stop him, to let him know the changes in his appearance aren’t a problem.

Brock stops in his tracks, then drops his hands and sinks to his knees. He’s panting, and his face and neck are covered in a layer of sweat. Jack realizes how hard the short fight must have been on him, no matter how effortless it looked; how strenuous wearing that heavy armor must be in his condition. He props himself up on one arm and rests a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re here for the adamantium?”

Brock nods. “How much do they pay you?”

“Ten. You?”

“Fifteen.” His breathing calms and he sits back on his heels, his shoulders sagging. “We’ll split.”

Jack smiles. “Just buy me dinner and we’re even.”

 

\--

 

As fugitives, they can’t just walk in a restaurant, so Brock takes Jack to his temporary place with a plan to fix them some dinner. Said dinner turns into something entirely else, and they end up on a lone mattress in Brock’s so-called bedroom. Not that Jack's disappointed. He’s starved for Brock, not for food, and the same seems to be true for Brock.

The years they lost are noticeable in how Brock avoids his gaze, how he shies away. Jack tries not to stare, like a thirsty man struggling not to drink all the water. Now that he knows for sure the burn scars aren't a source of pain for Brock, he’s seeing them in a different light. He wants to explore all the changes to his lover’s body, but Brock keeps trying to get him to stop while thinking he’s being subtle, and Jack’s not sure what to think.

“Brock,” he says when Brock turns his back to him.

“I know how I look,” Brock barks, more aggressive than it’s necessary, and Jack knows it’s his defense mechanism. “You don’t have to—it’s fine.”

The realization that Brock’s ashamed of his looks shakes him. Because that’s not Brock. Not his proud showoff of a boyfriend.

“What if I wanna?” He manages to turn Brock onto his back again and tips his face towards him with a finger on his chin. Brock avoids his eyes, staring somewhere below his neck. “I missed you so much. Don’t hide from me.”

“I’m not.” There’s a pink flush high on his cheeks. “Just sparing you the questionable pleasure of having to look at this mess. Don’t wanna kill your boner.”

Jack’s guts go cold at these cruel words, though they’re not unfounded. It’s not just scars; the left side of Brock’s face is melted. Jack can see where he’s coming from.

“My boner’s fine.”

And Brock should know, the way it’s pressed against his hip. He snorts mirthlessly.

“I guess I’m lucky you can ignore that.”

“Ignore?” Jack touches the melted side of his face. “I’m looking straight at you. And yeah, you look different.” He runs his fingers down his cheek, the skin sleek like wax. “But not repulsive. Not ugly. Never think that.”

Brock’s eyes snap to Jack’s face, searching for any sign of dishonesty. Jack smiles at him and leans in to taste the gossamer of scars on his jaw and down his neck, his stubble prickling his tongue.

“I like them,” he mumbles against his skin, his hands dropping to feel his arms, his palms learning their new uneven surface.

“You’re fucked in the head,” Brock says after a moment of silence.

But his hands stop gripping the sheets in order to rest on Jack’s bare back, and Jack leans into the touch. He feels the scars also there on Brock’s palms, and he guesses they were the reason Brock was so reluctant to touch him before. He looks up at him with a raise of his eyebrow.

“You’re only now figuring that out?”

He’s still smiling, and Brock’s beginning to smile back, the raising corners of his mouth making his face light up. He’s fully facing Jack now, his body pressing up against his, and it’s so much better when he eagerly takes what he wants instead of just lying there, hiding his face in the mattress and hesitantly letting Jack touch him.

 

\--

 

Jack can’t keep his hands to himself even after Brock falls asleep. He’s always been insatiable when it comes to Brock, struggling to stay away. Brock resigned himself to falling asleep to Jack’s gentle touches and light kisses long ago.

It’s even worse now, the constant yearning for _more_ , not only because they were apart for so long. There’s novelty in touching Brock; there are places Jack’s not yet familiar with, and he intends to study them until he knows them by heart.

He presses his front against Brock’s back, his fingers dancing across Brock’s ribs where his skin changes its texture from smooth to uneven and dry. He tucks his nose into Brock’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and his own deodorant. His smell is all over Brock, just like his body has been for the past two hours.

He’s drifting off when Brock makes a soft, distressed sound, and it’s all the warning he gets before Brock wakes up with a start. He props himself up, his limbs moving clumsily, like he wants to get away from something that’s all around him. His panicked breathing is loud in Jack’s ears, and he’s by his side in a split second, hoping to ground him with a light touch to his arm. Brock’s head snaps his way, haunted eyes take in his face, and suddenly his arms are thrown around Jack’s neck, his trembling body pressing close.

Jack’s so taken aback it takes him a good minute to close Brock in an embrace. Nightmares are nothing new—they come with the lifestyle they both lead—but Brock never before sought comfort from him.  He’d get out of bed and wander away to have a drink of water, come back after fifteen minutes at best and go back to sleep. Now he’s shaking in Jack’s arms, his face hidden in the crook of Jack’s neck. This nightmare must have been different from all the others.

Jack rubs his back and presses soft kisses to the side of his head until he calms down, but doesn’t let go.

“Don’t leave,” is rasped against Jack’s skin, the sound so barely-there it makes Jack think he imagined it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs into Brock’s hair. “I’m staying.”

Brock holds him tighter for a couple of seconds before moving away. He keeps his head down, and Jack catches his face in his hands, his thumbs brushing his cheeks, but doesn’t force him up, letting him hide behind his hair. Brock’s hands cover his after a moment, and Jack feels more than hears him breathe a sigh of relief.

Jack lies back down, pulling Brock with him. Brock curls by his side with his head on his chest, and Jack runs his fingers through his hair.

“I’m not leaving you again,” he says.

Brock grunts in response, already annoyed he let his vulnerability show. It makes Jack smile in faint amusement.

“I love you,” he says.

Brock doesn’t respond this time, but Jack doesn’t need him to. Soon, they fall asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing.


End file.
